


And the Crowds Will Be Screaming My Name

by FoxGlade



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester: Hover Car Racer, Gen, Gratuitous Backstory and Exposition, Hover Car Racer!AU, i swear this is not a crack fic, protective!Dean, this is going to be a long one I can tell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 00:19:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxGlade/pseuds/FoxGlade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Imagine twenty fighter jets racing around a twisting turning aerial track, ducking and weaving and overtaking at insanely high speeds and you've just imagined a hover car race."</p><p>Everyone knows that hover car racers are part race car driver, part fighter pilot, and all crazy. Luckily Dean Winchester fits the description perfectly. With the help of his little brother Sam as navigator, and some new friends at the International Race School, he's determined to blaze a path onto the Pro Circuit or die trying. But 'die trying' is starting to sound more and more likely as he gets further into the world of hover car racing; and when "accidents" start plaguing the Winchesters and the mysterious, quiet Castiel, and their fellow students start fighting dirty on the track, Dean learns that the fast and furious hover car racer lifestyle is even deadlier than he thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I: the boys Winchester

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based off the novel Hover Car Racer by Matthew Reilly. Although the events and places are similar, I tried to change things as much as possible. If you've never so much as heard of the book before, this won't mean a thing, but for anyone who's read it, some things are going to sound familiar, and I apologise. Enjoy!

The race was barely nine minutes old when Dean Winchester lost his steering rudder.

At 690 kilometres an hour.

Cursing, he was forced to slow down to a near stop, swinging past the racer who’d blown out his tail fin and steering rudder, and less than a second later two other hover cars had roared past him.  The rock formations and forest at the base of the Rockies in the north-west corner of Montana made for a dangerous racing territory, but nowhere near as dangerous as many of the other regional races they’d participated in. This guy was just an amateur with a junkyard car; but nonetheless, an amateur who may have just cost Dean the race.

He thumped the steering wheel. “Son of a bitch!” he yelled. Gritting his teeth, he pulled the car up to a complete stop, hovering three feet above the jutting rock piles and twisted in his seat. “What do we do now?” he ground out.

Sam, his little brother and navigator, was frantically recalculating their course based on their new disadvantage. “Hold on, hold on…” he muttered, pencil scribbling.

“We don’t have time, Sam!”

“Got it!” he cried a second later, voice breaking. “Head north, Dean, we gotta head north!”

“I’m on it,” Dean replied, and jammed his feet to the thrusters.

Off they shot, without steering, relying solely on Dean’s almost supernatural skill at the wheel of a hover car to keep them in the air. But that was nothing new.

 

 

 

Hover technology had changed the world in a lot of ways.

Specifically, the inventor’s decision release the technology for free to the public had changed the world. Not only had it completely revolutionized transport, but it had solved the oil crisis – hover technology made use of the Earth’s magnetic waves, and thus had no need for fuel. Makers of cars, buses, even boats and aeroplanes seized the technology and churned out new products for the rapidly changing world. Soon every wheeled car on Earth was considered outdated, vintage, useless.

 And, of course, there came the hover car racers.

The first models had been simply refitted, reformulated F1 cars, already built for insane land speeds. With new fittings, they became capable of flight speed up to 900 kilometres an hour; only the insane or foolhardy would dare try it.

Hover car racers were a special breed, but were becoming more numerous in the world. Kids as young as eleven were building, tinkering, driving the cars and all were striving for the same goal; get into the International Race School, get into a pro team, win the Grand Slam races, become Race Champion of the World.

The world of hover car racing was loud, brutal, and very, very fast.

 

* * *

 

Looking back, Dean knew he should have seen it coming.

The day was bad luck from the start. They’d pulled up to the race track that morning with blood pumping, adrenaline rushing through them at the sight of the track and the crowd gathering around it. They’d been racing brats their whole lives, and by this point, the sound of racing engines revving was like caffeine injected directly to the bloodstream. The lived and breathed it. Bobby had helped them transfer their car from the trailer attached to his hover pick-up truck, walked with them into the prep area and gruffly wished them luck, clapping them both on their shoulders before heading to the grandstand. Then it was time to prep.

Prep was mostly done by Dean, who, at 17, had four years on his little brother. Most likely Sam was the youngest one in the prep area, Dean thought, and at the moment he looked it. He was sitting on the bench opposite Dean, swinging his legs and greedily taking in the sight of all the other teams, occasionally tossing his overgrown bangs out of his eyes. _Should’ve cut his hair before the race_ , Dean thought, but lately Sam had been resisting the efforts to shorten his mop of hair and Dean couldn’t help but give in to whatever his brother wanted. As always.

In fact, it was probably only through Sam’s puppy dog eyes that Dean even let him race, and even then he would only let him if Dean was the one driving. It didn’t hurt that even at 13, Sam was a tactical genius and a complete math whiz. Still, there was a reason most regional qualifying races only accepted drivers above the age of sixteen. Hurtling through the air at speeds of up to 700 kilometres an hour was no place for a kid.

But if he could have chosen any race to qualify on, it would be a Gate Race. The racers had three hours to fly around the course area (there was no track, of course) and go through as many of the enormous arches as they could, gathering points. Gates further from the start line are worth more than gates closer; the furthest gates were 100 points, the closest worth 10. In a Gate Race, a navigator really got to show their stuff, as they were responsible for plotting the optimum course that would both get them as many points as possible, and also get them back to the starting line on time.

And getting back to the starting line on time was paramount; for every second over three hours that you failed to cross the start line, you would have one point taken away from you. Crossing the line even one minute late would cost you a whopping 60 points. Every second counts in a hover car race, but none more so than the Gate Race.

“Dean!” Sam’s excited yelp broke Dean out of his thoughts. “Oh my god, Dean, it’s him, it’s Chuck Shirley!”

Dean’s head snapped up so fast he almost gave himself whiplash. Chuck Shirley was the principal of the International Race School, and if he was at the Northern USA Regional Championships, then it could only be for one reason; to scope out racers for his school. Most likely he’d be handing out a ticket to the school to the winner; if so, the Winchester boys would have to race harder, faster and better than ever before.

“Wait, is that Ellen Harvelle with him? It is, right?” he asked, but he knew he was right. Standing next to Shirley was former Grand Slam Champion and current mentor at the International Race School, Ellen Harvelle. Whereas Shirley was nervously chatting with a group of journalists, Harvelle was overseeing the teams prepping their cars with a steely eye, arms crossed. Suddenly her eyes cut to Dean’s and he stared back for a moment before looking away.

“She must be here scoping out students with him,” he said heavily.

“Dean, we need to win this race,” Sam gasped. Obviously his thoughts had mirrored his brother’s. “We have to get into that school, Dean, we _have_ to.” He sounded close to tears. Dean quickly abandoned the car and walked over to him, pulling him into a hug.

“Don’t you worry, little brother,” he said lightly, running a hand through his shaggy hair. Sam pressed closer. “With your brains, my driving and the _Impala_ ’s guts, how can we lose?”

 

* * *

 

Apparently, this was how.

Dean’s flying was, as usual, incredible. He handled the thrusters so well it was almost as if they’d never lost the steering, alternating left and right with ease. But, as faithful as the old _Impala_ was, she couldn’t handle almost three hours of her thrusters being used in place of steering; certainly they were never intended to be used as such. Even Sam’s frantically recalculated course, brilliant as it was, couldn’t save them. As the clock ticked over to three hours, cars shot over the line, the _Impala_ rocketing past not a second too late. They pulled into their prep bay, exhausted and defeated, and looked at the score board.

Out of five contestants, Dean and Sam had come in last place, losing to fourth place by ten points, and still 180 points behind the leader.

The climbed out of the _Impala_ slowly, moving stiffly with their heads hanging low. They’d had one chance, one chance to make it to get on the road towards their dreams, and they’d blown it.

“Good race today, boys!” a familiar voice called out across the bay. Narrowing his eyes, Dean pulled Sam to his side and looked into the face of Terrance Azazel. “Too bad about that crash. Maybe you’ll get in next time. Or maybe,” he continued with a leer at Sam, “you should wait until you’re a little older, more _experienced_ , perhaps?”

Dean gritted his teeth and tightened his arm around Sam. Azazel was from Lawrence, Kansas just like them, and even went to the same high school as Dean; the one he’d dropped out of after tenth grade. Years of hatred towards the bully in front of him welled up in Dean. It was one thing when Azazel picked on Dean: he could handle it. But since Azazel had taken advantage of Dean leaving the school just as Sam entered it, Dean had been just itching for an excuse to punch his smug, smirking face in.

“Why don’t you beat it, _Terrance_ ,” he said instead. “Wouldn’t want to risk your Race School ticket on a brawl in the pits, would you?”

Smirk still firmly in place, Azazel turned and walked away, but couldn’t resist calling over his shoulder, “See you on the podium, Winchester – or not.”

Dean watched him walk away with clenched fists.

“Dean, you can let go of me now,” Sam said quietly. Dean released him and ran a hand over his face. “Should we go find Bobby?”

Dean hesitated, looking at the _Impala_. She was quiet now, metal cooled down in the shaded prep bay, tail fin half missing. He ran a hand over a scratch in her gleaming black paint. “Sorry, baby,” he murmured. “Guess I let us both down today.” He straightened and turned. “Let’s go find Bobby and go home.”

 

* * *

 

They reached Bobby in the grandstand just as the presentation of prizes began.

Dean could only stand frozen to the spot as Azazel held up the Championship trophy in triumph, letting out a harsh bark of laughter as the crowd went wild. It carried on for only a few seconds, however; a hush fell over the spectators as Chuck Shirley approached the podium. He held a microphone in one hand, and as he stepped up next to Azazel, he flicked it on then coughed nervously into it.

“Is this on? Is this-? Okay, uh. Well, as you all know, this was the last regional race of the season, and with that in mind, I’d like to make an announcement.” He stopped for a moment to fiddle with his collar and cough again. “Well, uh, the winner today has not only won himself a place at the top of his local racing circuit – he has also won himself…” Here he fumbled with his other hand, and produced a slightly curled envelope from his jacket pocket. Dean’s heart sank to his feet. Beside him Sam made a dismayed noise. “… Won himself an invitation to join the International Race School!”

The crowd went ballistic. Azazel’s grin was blinding even at this distance. He held up the envelope in one hand and the trophy in the other, shaking them both to the crowd’s delight.

“Come on, boys, we don’t need to see this show-pony prance around,” Bobby said in disgust. He put his hands on Dean and Sam’s shoulders and left them off the grandstands, back to his car.

 

* * *

 

The pits were deserted when the truck pulled up. Half the lights had been shut off already; occupants of individual bays who’d already packed up and gone had obviously turned them off after them. The strip lighting over the _Impala_ made her gleam and, from this angle, it looked like she’d never even been injured.

The sight was restful to Dean, until a figure stepped out from the shadows.

“Hey!” Dean yelled instinctively, not wanting any stranger near his baby. He went to storm forward and was abruptly stopped by Bobby’s arm across his chest.

“Geez, Ellen, it’s been nigh on eight years, and you still can’t say hello like a normal person,” Bobby grumbled. The figure laughed, low and throaty, and stepped into the light.

It was Ellen Harvelle. She and Bobby met each other in the middle and embraced, slapping each other’s backs before separating. “It’s good to see you, Bobby,” she said before casting an eye over Dean. He felt Sam press closer to his side under her eagle-eyed stare.

“You boys raced mighty fine today,” she said finally. “You should be real proud.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, Ms Harvelle,” Dean replied, gruffly, “but we screwed up bad, and came dead last. Ain’t nothin’ to be proud about that.”

“You kiddin’ me boy?” she said incredulously. “I saw that crash out in the west quadrant. That was barely nine minutes in, and it looked like it did some major damage. Seems to me your steering got compromised, but you got right back in and finished damn near everyone else point-wise, and not a second over three hours.”

“Still lost,” Dean muttered. “And our steering wasn’t just compromised, we lost it altogether.”

Ellen stilled. “But you were driving for more than two hours after that crash!” she said, shocked. “How the hell did you do it? You didn’t pit anywhere.”

Sam was peeking out from behind Dean now, and finally found his voice. “He steered using the thrusters,” he said, blushing. “Left to go right, right to go left…” he trailed off. “Y’know,” he finished lamely. Ellen stared at him, then shifted her gaze back to Dean.

“Well, in that case, you better be extra proud. That’s… I’ve never even heard anything like that,” Ellen muttered, before seemingly shaking herself and fixing her gaze back on Sam. “Anyway, there’s one other thing. Sam, isn’t it?” Sam nodded mutely. “Mind if I take a look at your plotted course? Your original one, if you changed it after the crash.”

Sam nodded and rummaged under the _Impala_ ’s navigator seat for a moment, withdrawing their map. Ellen took it and, after studying it for a few seconds, pulled out a second map and compared the two. Dean started feeling sick. Were they going to be accused of cheating? The location and point value of the gates were only given to the racers three minutes before the race began, and computer technology was strictly prohibited to create a course, so that racers were forced to rely on their navigators (or, occasionally, their own) skills in plotting. Sam had a particular talent for Gate Races, but would Ellen believe that? Would the judges?

“Hmmm.” Ellen snapped both maps shut and stuffed the second one back in her pocket. “Is it alright if I hang onto this one?” she asked Sam. He hesitated. “Because I think I’ll drop in to yours tonight, Bobby, if that’s alright with you.”

“S’fine,” Bobby said in surprise. He’d been watching the exchange in silence until now. “Always good to have you in, Ellen. Jo gonna be with you?”

“Yeah, I don’t think she’s met the boys, it’ll do her good.” At Dean and Sam’s shared look, she elaborated, “Jo’s my daughter. She’s around your age, Dean; a year younger, I think. She’s a Mech Chief,” she added, and Dean relaxed the muscles he’d tensed when Ellen has started talking about a daughter. Behind him he could feel Sam do the same. A lot of people said that hover car racers were like soldiers: once they get into the life, it’s hard for them to relate or even communicate with people who’ve only ever seen races on TV.

“I gotta go, but I’ll see you around seven,” Ellen said. Bobby briskly shook her hand and smiled.

“Lookin’ forward to it,” he replied. Ellen nodded, and looked at Dean and Sam again.

“You got two mighty fine boys here, Bobby. I always said you’d be a great dad,” she said gently, then walked out of the bay. Bobby stared after her, obviously touched.

The bay was silent for another few moments before Dean elbowed Bobby. “You never said you were friends with Ellen Harvelle!” he hissed. Bobby elbowed him back and rolled his eyes.

“Never came up, brat,” he snapped back, but he ruffled Dean’s hair simultaneously to soften the insult. The three of them started to pack up the _Impala_ for transport, moving in practiced synchronization with each other. “I was her Mech Chief, before I was your Dad’s. But that was over twenty years ago now – we saw each other all the time, of course, we were on the same pro circuit after all. But I haven’t talked to her since before her daughter was born. Wonder what she’s up to?” he said shrewdly. Dean and Sam glanced at each other.

“Why’d you think she’s up to something?” Sam asked. He reached into the cockpit and flicked the controls until the car rumbled to life, then scrambled to hang onto the edge to help Dean and Bobby guide it back to the trailer.

“When’s she not?” Bobby grumbled. “Besides, taking your map and then asking herself to dinner? No way she’s not cooking something up. But it can only be a good thing, mind you,” he said sharply, seeing Dean and Sam’s wary looks.

“It better be, because this day just can’t get any worse,” Dean muttered.

 

* * *

 

From north-west Montana to Sioux Falls, South Dakota was only around three hours by hover car. Sam, exhausted by the sheer amount of adrenaline his body had pumped out over the day, had fallen asleep ten minutes in, head tilted awkwardly against the window until Dean had rolled his eyes and pulled Sam’s head into his lap. Sam had woken and flailed for a while, protesting about being “too old for this” and about how he was “not a baby, Dean!”. Of course, he’d fallen asleep again the minute Dean started stroking his hair. Dean was staring out the window now, absently petting Sam, watching the landscape rush past.

“He’s growing up, isn’t he?” Bobby said suddenly, voice gruffer than usual. Dan looked at him and saw him watching the two of them in the review mirror.

“Yeah,” he said, tucking a strand of Sam’s stupidly long hair behind his ear. “Gonna be taller than me, soon.” The thought settled in his stomach and sat there unpleasantly, as if he’d swallowed a stone that was going to be all grown up and ready to leave home in only a few years, leaving Dean behind forever. Or something.

“He takes after your daddy,” Bobby said quietly. He hesitated, then plowed on, “He’d be real proud of you boys after today. He’d be as proud as I am.”

Dean didn’t respond. He was looking out the window again, with his head now tilted up to try and rid his eyes of the sudden tears. He buried his fingers in Sam’s hair and stared resolutely at the sky.

“Thanks, Bobby,” he said five minutes later, voice a little unsteady.

The rest of the trip passed in silence.

 

* * *

 

Dinner was quiet, but a comfortable sort of quiet.

Although both Winchester boys protested against any sort of celebration, Bobby insisted on cooking their favourite meal (“On account of you managing not to kill yourself and your brother,” he snapped at Dean while flipping the patties). They were eating burgers at the table, Dean’s dripping with meat juices and Sam’s stuffed full of salad, when the dog outside started barking, just as the familiar thrum of a hover car came into hearing. Sam dropped his burger and ran to the door, shyness apparently forgotten. Dean listened for the creak of the door opening, then heard Sam’s excited, high-pitched chatter, answered by Ellen’s low voice, obviously amused, although Dean couldn’t make out the words. Sam came back in seconds, followed by a pleased looking Ellen and a teenage girl who had to be Jo.

“I was told there were burgers,” she said. Bobby nodded and jerked his head to the stove.

“Patties in the fry pan, everything else on the bench,” he replied thickly, mouth half full. Ellen smacked the back of his head as she walked past.

“Ain’t nobody ever teach you any manners, Bobby Singer?” she scowled. “This is why I don’t ever bring Jo over, you’re a bad influence,” she added, but Dean could see the smile in her expression. Jo was at her mother’s side, but not in the way Sam was so often at Dean’s; she made herself a burger and came to sit next to Dean with a confidence he almost admired. She set down her plate and held out a hand to shake.

“Jo Harvelle, but you probably already guessed that,” she said, smiling sweetly. Dean shook her hand, already liking her when he grabbed her strong and calloused hand, liking her even more when she offered the same hand for Sam to shake.

“Dean and Sam Winchester,” Dean said, grinning. “But you probably already knew that.”

“Having famous parents’ll do that to you,” she said drily, before digging into her burger with a gusto Dean could barely match.

Ellen and Bobby chatted during dinner whilst the three teenagers stayed quiet, choosing rather to demolish their food. After they’d finished, Jo sat fidgeting in her seat, glancing between her mother and Dean and back again until Dean finally burst out, “What?”

“Mom has something she wants to ask you!” she said immediately.

“Joanna Beth, I told you not to say a word!” Ellen snapped back. Jo shrugged, eyes innocent. “I might as well now,” Ellen grumbled, sounding eerily like Bobby, before turning to face Dean and Sam. “Like I said back in the pits, you boys were mighty fine today. Dean’s driving was inspired, and you, Sam Winchester!” Sam looked briefly terrified, but Ellen ploughed on, “I ran your plotted course through the race calc back at HQ, it showed up 98% efficiency. You had three minutes to take the course in and figure out a plan, and you come up with that? You got some serious brains kid – almost as much brains as your brother has crazy.”

Sam was blushing wildly by the time she finished, and Dean reached out, grinning, to give him a quick noogie. “Always said so, haven’t I, Sammy?”

“It’s Sam!” he said hotly, twisting out of his brother’s grip with ease, although he didn’t object to Dean’s arm staying across his shoulder.

“You see, I work as a mentor at the International Race School now, have for a couple years,” she continued as if they hadn’t interrupted. “Since I got a bit of cred there, seniority, you might say, I have the opportunity to bring in one or two racers each year of my own pick.”

Dean’s heart skipped a beat. “Rea- really?” Sam breathed.

“Yeah, kid, really. And seeing you boys today, the way you worked both separately and together…” Ellen trailed off and pulled an envelope from her jacket pocket. Dean felt his eyes go impossibly wide. “I was wonderin’ of you boys would like a place at the International Race School?

Dean stopped breathing. Sam’s hand crept up and grabbed Dean’s from where it was still resting across his shoulder. “Sammy?” he said breathlessly, turning to face his little brother. “What do you think?”

“Yes!” Sam shouted. His voice cracked in his excitement.

Dean looked to Bobby, his surrogate father, the reason he was there. “Whaddaya lookin’ at me for, boy?” Bobby scoffed, but his eyes seemed a little misty. “Of course you’re goin’, the both of you. Idjits.”

The next few minutes were something of a blur; Sam was hugging Ellen and thanking her repeatedly, Ellen looking amused but also affectionate, patting his back. Dean had thrown his arms around Jo in a rush of happiness, then dragged Bobby over and hugged the both of them. He may have let a discrete tear slip down his cheek at one point, but no one noticed, so it never happened, in his books. Sam cried enough for both of them in those few minutes.

But after two hours, Ellen and Bobby were still talking arrangements and paper work, and Jo had long since fallen asleep on the couch. It was only through sheer force of will (and stolen soda from the fridge) that Sam was still awake, and he was yawning every thirty seconds. Finally Dean got up off the armchair and hauled Sam, who’d been sitting on the rug in front of the fire, to his feet.

“Come on, Sammy,” he told his frantically blinking little brother. “Let’s get you into bed.”

“I’m not a _baby_ , Dean,” Sam protested softly, before yawning so big Dean could see his tonsils. “You don’t have to put me to bed.”

“Come on, Sammy, you’ll always be a baby to me. It’s a big brother thing,” he said, half-dragging Sam up the stairs.

Despite there being more than enough space, Dean and Sam still shared a bedroom. In fact, they’d even shared a bed from the time Bobby had adopted them until Dean turned 13 and decided he was a big kids, and big kids had their own beds. They’d stayed that way ever since, except when Dean was 15, and he’d had a brief fit of needing to be independent. He’d moved his things into the room opposite his and Sam’s bedroom, and after three sleepless nights for both brothers, he’d unceremoniously moved them back.

Now Dean pushed open their door and shoved Sam over to his side of the room. “I don’t have to change you and dress you, do I?” he asked jokingly.

“NO,” Sam shot back, turning red. “Go take a shower, you stink,” he shot back. Dean laughed and grabbed his things, waving cheerfully to his brother as he left.

Twenty minutes later he walked back in, stepping quietly when he saw the lights off and Sam a lump under his covers. He got into his own bed and sighed.

Racing School. The only future he’d ever dreamed of was in reach. He allowed himself a moment to envision it; him and Sam standing on top of the Champion’s podium, being handed the enormous trophy, declared winner of all four Grand Slam races.

He was still smiling over the image when there was a soft thump next to him, and then the padding of light feet, and then Sam was leaning over him and quietly asking, “Can I sleep here tonight?”

It wasn’t uncommon for Sam to slip into Dean’s bed, usually if he’d had a bad day or was having nightmares. Hell, sometimes Dean even went over to Sam’s bed first, if he could hear him thrashing around (or, less often, if he himself had had an especially rough day). He figured it would be something Sam would become too embarrassed to do as he got older and started being more possessed by image and his own masculinity, but so far he showed no sign of it. (Dean was secretly glad that his semi-regular Sam-cuddling time was showing no sign of ending, and he would deny the hell out of that if ever asked.)

As it was, Dean simply lifted the cover up and Sam was instantly crawling in, burrowing himself into Dean’s chest like he was magnetized. “You okay, Sammy?” Dean asked, just in case. Sam lifted his head off Dean’s chest and grinned, teeth white in the darkness.

“Yeah,” he said. “We’re going to Race School, Dean.”

“We sure are, Sammy,” he said, his face breaking into its own smile, “We’re going to Race School.”


	2. Part II: Race School

The International Race School, home to the hopes and dreams of every up and coming hover car racer, was situated at the end of the world.

On the island of Tasmania, dangling off the bottom east corner of Australia, racing was the way of life. The entire island – all 62,000 square metres of it – was owned by the International Race School. The story of how that came to be was legendary, of course. Alarmed at the ever-declining population of Tasmania, the Australian government were uncertain of how to act, or whether to act at all. Once the population dipped below 20,000, they decided to sell the land off, in a move that outraged environmentalists the world over, considering the sheer amount of natural beauty and rainforest on the island. To add further insult, it was bought by a gas and oil company, all set to mine the land for i’s resources.

Then, scant years later, came hover technology, and the collapse of the oil trade.

The island was bought by a billionaire visionary, Henry Campbell, and his group of racer friends, and together they built the Race School over a period of a decade. To the delight of environmentalists, they even worked to preserve the natural landscape, rather than exploit it. The venture benefitted them enormously; Tasmania was now the second most popular tourist destination in the world, just behind the Pyramids of Giza, and after only ten year of operating, the Race School was the most prestigious in the world.

And now, Dean and Sam Winchester were heading straight for it.

 

* * *

 

“I’m telling you Sam, we don’t have to do this, we can just get in the _Impala_ and drive there,” Dean hissed as they took off their backpacks and put them on the trays. Sam rolled his eyes.

“Dean, not even you could drive to the other side of the world without a pit stop,” he said, and stepped through the metal detector. He smiled back at Dean when it stayed silent. “It’s just a plane, Dean,” he continued. “I mean, it’s basically just a really big hover car, how can you be afraid of it?”

“I’m not afraid!” Dean hissed, and went through the metal detector. No beeps. He breathed a sigh of relief, then cuffed Sam over the back of the head. “I’m just stressed out. I mean, I’m basically getting in a hover car without knowing any of the driver’s stats. How long have they been driving? Do they handle turns well? Will they keep their head in an emergency? That’s scary, dude. I don’t know how you can just sit there behind me when I drive,” he added. They collected their backpacks and made for the Departures lounge of Los Angeles International Airport.

“I trust you,” Sam said simply. Dean let it drop.

Their flight into Tasmania would board in around 50 minutes. Sam had dropped into the first armchair he saw and instantly pulled out his laptop to take advantage of the free wi-fi, so Dean started walking in the direction of the Gates. If he was going to be on a plane for ten hours, he might as well stretch his legs.

It was around 4pm, so the airport was bustling with people. He ended up pacing, unwilling to leave Sam alone in a crowded and unfamiliar airport, walking twenty metres from Sam before heading back and walking another twenty metres the other way. Every time Sam caught him looking over, he rolled his eyes so hard Dean was pretty sure they were going to pop out.

 _I’m not a baby!_ Sam mouthed when Dean passed him for the third time. Dean smirked and made a cradling motion with his arms as he kept walking. Sam replied with a rude hand gesture.

Dean threw his head back and laughed aloud, and then he crashed into another person.

The girl staggered back, muttering “sorry, sorry!” as she clutched her handheld gaming device to her chest. “Wasn’t looking where I was going, sorry, _shoot_ ,” she continued, then shut the device and frowned at it. “You broke my streak,” she complained. Dean held up his hands.

“Sorry,” he said. Then, out of curiosity, “What game is it?”

“Fighter Pilots V.2” she said immediately. “Why, you play?” She tilted her head and considered him, brushing a few strands of bright red hair off her face.

“Nah, but my brother does,” he said dismissively. He held out a hand. “I’m Dean Winchester.”

She shook it. “Charlie Bradbury,” she said. “You look around my age, and you haven’t got a parent with you, so I assume you’re heading to the Race School?”

“Uh, yeah,” he replied, frowning. “Driver.”

“Awesome. I’m a Mech Chief.”

“Really?” She didn’t look it. Her hands were clean and smooth, and her shoulders were thin – most of the Mech Chiefs he knew, male and female, had big hands, big shoulder and arms, and big mouths. Charlie didn’t have any of those, except maybe the big mouth. Even Jo, slim as she’d been when they’d met two weeks back, had had the tell-tale broad shoulders and firm arms of a mechanic. Charlie held up her unblemished hands.

“I know, I don’t look it, right?” she said wryly. “I’m into the programming side, but I can do a seven second pit stop if I have to.”

“Seven seconds?” The average in amateur circles was ten, while semi-pro mostly did eight. Seven seconds was Pro Circuit stuff. “Well in that case, wanna come sit with me and my brother? He’s my navigator.”

“Wicked,” she said happily, and followed him back to where Sam was sitting.

 

* * *

 

Dean sprawled in his chair, eyes closed and head back, listening to Sam and Charlie’s enthusiastic chatter.

“I’m just saying, I don’t think he should have taken the project on if he was just gonna change anything he didn’t like and cover it by shouting “artistic license!” at anyone who objected,” Charlie was arguing.

“It was his project, he had a right to make it how he wanted!” Sam insisted. “Besides, everything he left out and everything he put in had a _purpose_ , it wasn’t like he just decided to cut stuff for shits and giggles.”

“Language,” Dean said automatically. Sam ignored him and kept up his rabid defense of Peter Jackson and his _Lord of the Rings_ film trilogy while Charlie mercilessly attacked it. Their voices were heated, but they were very obviously having a blast.

Dean was in no way jealous.

He and Charlie had talked shop for the first ten minutes or so, Sam injecting every now and then. He’d described the _Impala_ , leaving Charlie cooing and demanding to see it when they arrived at the school. Then Sam had to go asking her about her gaming device, which led to them discussing gaming for fifteen minutes, and then that led to a _literary_ discussion of all things, at which point his brother and their newest friend turned absolutely rabid. Dean had given up following after five minutes of references to some letters Tolkien had apparently written and something called Queer Theory, and after another ten minutes they’d arrived at a heated debate over book versus film.

“All I’m saying is, if the guy’s as big a fan as he _supposedly_ is- ,”

“Oh hey, would ya look at that, we’re boarding,” Dean interrupted. Sam glared at him and shouldered his bag. “Charlie, where are you sitting?”

“Oh! Um…” she fumbled for her ticket and squinted at it. “Seat 12F.”

Dean grinned and held up his own. “I guess you’ll have to keep talking to the Sammich over here then,” he said, putting on a sympathetic tone and ignoring Sam’s indignant squawk at the little-used childhood nickname. His ticket read Seat 12D, while Sam’s read 12F.

“Awesome! Come on, let’s board, bitches,” she said happily, picking up her own backpack and slinging it across her shoulder. Dean exchanged a pleased smile with Sam, and they followed after.

 

* * *

 

Unfortunately, even though Dean’s nerves had left while he was distracted by Charlie, they returned in full force once they took their seats on the plane. It was a relatively small plane, around 90 seats, with six to a row. Since there were only around 30 or so passengers on board, only a third of the plane was occupied.

He was in seat D, so he had aisle on his left and Sam on his right. Sam was making himself comfortable, folding the blanket around himself and examining the screen in the headrest in front of him with interest. Dean had simply shoved his pillow behind his back and sat stock still, gripping the arm rests so hard his knuckles turned white.

When the seatbelt lights turned on and the flight attendant’s voice came over the speakers, Dean was starting to sweat. Sam finally noticed and rested a hand over Dean’s. “It’s okay, Dean, they wouldn’t let someone who wasn’t perfect fly the plane.”

“I don’t care how perfect they are, I still don’t trust anyone to fly me except me,” Dean said through gritted teeth. He jerked his hand out of Sam’s grip, but at his hurt expression, he put it back on the hand rest. He was having a hard enough time dealing already; Sam getting upset would only make him panic even more.

He closed his eyes and focused on keeping his breathing even. Ten seconds later the engines started roaring to life and he felt the electro-mag drives on the underside of the wings engage. Charlie was silent next to the window; obviously she’d taken Sam’s lead on staying quiet.

The plane was moving now, heading towards the runway, and Dean was beginning to gasp for breath when a hand gripped his shoulder tight and a voice said, “If you breathe deeper, it will be over more quickly.”

Dean twisted his head and stared. The voice had come from the seat one row behind him, across the aisle. The boy sitting there was pale, with a mop of dark hair almost as messy as Sam’s (although cut much shorter), and was looking at Dean with intense, dark blue eyes. “Excuse me?” Dean wheezed.

“You are having a panic attack,” the boy said. His voice was low, gravelly, and it was doing odd things to Dean’s mind – already his heart was slowing down, more oxygen reaching his brain as his breathing slowed too. “You must breathe deeply, and stop thinking of the plane.”

“Bit hard to do that, buddy,” he replied, heart speeding up again as they reached the start of the runway. The engines were deafening now, and Sam was craning his neck to see who Dean was talking to, and as the plane began it’s breathtakingly quick journey down the runway, the boy across the aisle behind him squeezed his shoulder and said, “You mustn’t be afraid. No harm will come to you or your siblings here.”

And, somehow, it worked.

By the time the plane had lifted above the airport and begun turning in a long circle, Dean had calmed down completely and relaxed his death grip on Sam’s hand. He nodded at his little brother who was staring at him with a relieved expression, then leant around him to give Charlie a thumbs up. She grinned back at him then turned back to the window, and Dean twisted in his seat to look at the boy across the aisle again. His hand was still on Dean’s shoulder. “Thanks,” he said with a frown. “How’d you know what to do?”

“I used to get panic attacks a lot,” the boy replied calmly. Dean could feel Sam twisting in his seat, trying to get a look at who Dean was talking to.

“Anyway, thanks,” Dean replied, throwing the guy a grin that was hopefully charming instead of panicked. Judging by the guy’s suddenly red cheeks, it probably was. Still smiling, Dean turned back to his brother.

“Alright, we got a ten hour flight ahead of us. What movie do you wanna watch first?”

 

* * *

 

After watching one movie together, they’d ended up playing a first person shooter game together, winner versus Charlie. Sam won, of course, but he was shocked and dismayed to find that he lost spectacularly to Charlie.

“Queen of the console, bitches!” she crowed as the point tally flashed onto the screen.

While they battled it out, Dean took discrete glances down the aisle at the guy who’d talked him down from his panic attack. He was reading a thick novel the whole flight, except for brief conversation with the man sitting next to him. The other guy looked a couple of years older than Dean, and had tawny brain hair. He figured they were brothers; they didn’t look very much alike, but neither did he and Sam.

The flight was direct to the Race School, so only students and a few parents were on the flight. Since the school’s average number of students per year was around 90 (30 drivers, 30 navigators and 30 Mech Cheifs), they were bound to come into contact at some point. He wondered if they’d get along.

He fell asleep six hours in, Sam snoring on his shoulder and Charlie intently watching a movie on her screen.

 

* * *

 

Landing was easier than taking off. Sam determinedly held his hand for the whole time, despite Dean’s protests that he was “fine now, Sammy, if you wanted to hold my hand you could just _ask_ ”. He sneaked a glance back to the blue eyed boy, and this time caught his intense gaze. He smiled reassuringly, as Dean felt even better than before.

As soon as the plane was fully stopped, Dean was out of his seat and grabbing his and Sam’s things from the overhead compartment. Charlie had been too paranoid to put her things (including a very fancy looking laptop) in storage space, and was pulling it out from under her seat as Dean threw Sam’s backpack to him. Sam caught it and glared. “Be _careful_ , Dean,” he admonished.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean muttered. “Let’s just get off the hunk of metal, okay?”

Sam, perhaps wisely, didn’t reply. The three of them strode down the aisle towards the exit before most of the other passengers were out of their seats.

The International Race School’s airport was a fair distant from the actual school, around 20 minutes by bus. The bus ride was infinitely better on Dean’s nerves than the plane, although he still would have preferred to drive himself. But the _Impala_ was on the steadiest cargo ship available, along with the rest of the American students’ cars, making its way across the Pacific Ocean. It would arrive the next day, and the day after that was the official first day of Racing School.

When the bus pulled up outside the school, they made their way off and stood in front of the Administration building, clutching their backpacks and gazing in awe.

The building was the epitome of sleek and modern – glass paneling, with sharp lines and a silver gleam in the harsh Australian sun. Sam came to stand next to Dean and he automatically put his arm around him.

“We made it, Sammy,” he said with disbelief. Sam didn’t even protest the nickname.

“I can’t believe we’re actually here,” he replied. He sounded bewildered.

“You and me both, man.”

The opaque doors of the building slid open, and Chuck Shurley stepped out, looking at the crowd of 30 teenagers nervously. “You must be the, ah, American students?” he questioned. Everyone nodded slowly. “Good. Uh, follow me?”

They filed into the building, eyes wide, eagerly taking everything in. Suspended from the ceiling inside the sparsely decorated room was the legendary H-1: the original hover car. Nearly everyone in the group craned the necks backwards to keep it in sight as they walked across the room, directly under it.

They were led to a small antechamber type room, which led onto a small corridor. “Your rooms are through there,” Shurley said. “You can go and put your things there, and your other bags will be brought up in half an hour or so. Lunch will be at 3, and dinner at 7. I’m going to call out your names, and then you’ll come and collect your keys and a map, okay? Okay. Team Azazel, driver Terrance?”

Azazel pushed past Dean, slamming his shoulder into Dean’s, making him stumble and bump into a dark haired girl who gave him a wicked glare.

“Mech Chief Bradbury?”

He and Sam waved to Charlie as she walked over to get her keys, sending a quick Vulcan Ta’al over her shoulder. Since she hadn’t come with a team, she’d room by herself for the year, unless she requested to be placed with her assigned team mates.

The names continued until Shurley came to, “Team Milton, driver – uh, Castiel?”

The blue eyed boy from the plane stepped forward, followed by the tawny haired guy. He neatly took his keys and map, and Dean could have sworn his eyes met Dean’s for a moment before he was off down the corridor. He didn’t realize he was staring until Sam tugged on his sleeve.

“Come on, Dean, they called us! Let’s go!” he whispered, pulling Dean forward. Dean shook him off and gave him a shove down the hall, grabbing his keys from Shurley as they passed.

“Okay, little brother, let’s see what these new digs are like.”

 

* * *

 

The new digs looked good.

There were three apartment blocks on the school campus for the students’ use. Two of the buildings had five floors, with six apartments per floor. The other was a low, long two-storey bunker with ten rooms on each floor. The two apartment blocks were generally reserved for team members who chose to live together, whereas the bunker was for students (almost always Mech Chiefs) who came to the school without a team. Dean and Sam’s apartment was on the third floor of Block 2, and as Dean clicked the key into the lock and pushed the door open, he whistled lowly.

The front door opened onto a wide, spacious living area, with an overstuffed couch and two armchairs arranged around a wide screened TV. There was even a fireplace on the left wall. They could see the equally open kitchen from the doorway, which practically gleamed with modern counters and a slick looking fridge and oven. There were three doors off the back wall of the living area, presumably the two bedrooms and the bathroom. Sam was gaping at the sight; Bobby’s house was great, and not exactly tiny, but it was also cluttered and very old – this was the very antithesis of the house they’d lived in for five years. Even the hazy memories of the house they’d lived in with their mom couldn’t compare.

Dean hitched his backpack and nudged Sam. “Pick a bedroom and let’s dump our stuff, Sam, I need to recharge.”

Sam’s brows drew together and he looked up at Dean with sad eyes. “Are we gonna have separate rooms?” he asked.

“What? No, of course not. I meant pick one for both of us, stupid.” Sam’s smile was blinding. He ran towards the bedrooms, picking the one on the left first and slamming the door open. Dean followed behind.

The left bedroom had one King sized bed, so they went through the bathroom joining the rooms and surveyed the other. There were two singled beds, and Sam instantly put dibs on the one against the wall, furthest from the bathroom. Dean dumped his backpack on the table next to the other bed and stretched, then checked his phone’s time. It was still on American time, reading 11:48pm, even though was mid-afternoon where they were now.

Sam had settled on his bed, pulling out his laptop and tapping in the wi-fi password written on the card on the bedside table. “I’m gonna take a nap,” Dean decided. “Keep an eye out for the guys bringing our bags up, okay Sammy?”

“You can’t take a nap, Dean,” Sam replied, rolling his eyes as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “We have to acclimatise to the new time zone, otherwise you won’t be able to- ,”

“Yeah, whatever,” Dean grumbled. He collapsed belly first onto the bed, not taking off his shoes. “Wake me up for dinner.”

Dean could _feel_ Sam’s eye roll before he fell asleep, dead to the world in moments.

 

* * *

 

Sam woke Dean up two minutes before 7pm and laughed as Dean ran out the door, swearing loudly. He pushed through the dining hall’s doors five minutes later, still fuming, and quickly scooped food onto his plate while the rest of the students – all prompt and on time, of course – watched him, whispering. This was the part he knew was coming, the thing he’d been planning on shielding Sam from; the Winchesters, son of the multi Grand Slam winner John Winchester, subject to every gossiper without a life. He scanned the tables and walked over to the least occupied one, head down.

The fact that the blue eyed boy from the plane and his brother were sitting there was just coincidental, he told himself.

“Seat free?” he asked, setting his tray down. The blue eyed guy smiled and made a ‘go ahead’ gesture, while the older one just looked him over.

“Not gonna network with the rest of your elite buddies over there?” he sneered, jerking a head to the other tables. Dean glanced over and wasn’t surprised to see Azazel surrounded by other students – although he was surprised to see a young blonde girl sitting next to him, laughing and chatting closely with him.

“Didn’t realise eighteen year olds could be elites,” Dean replied. He stabbed a French fry – the label on the buffet had called them ‘chips’, weird – and chewed it violently. He was suddenly very aware that he’d only eaten one of the three meals served on the plane, giving his other two to Sam for him to pick over. “And none of them are exactly buddies,” he added, sneaking another look at Azazel. This time Azazel was looking back at him. He spoke a few words to the people around him and they all roared with laughter. Dean turned back to his dinner and viciously cut into his steak, incredibly glad that Sam had chosen to stay in the room, since he’d eaten a big lunch while Dean was asleep. He shoved a chunk of meat into his mouth and chewed. The blue eyed boy across the table wrinkled his nose and Dean felt himself blush. He put his knife and fork down, swallowed the food and held out a hand.

“Dean Winchester,” he said to the blue eyed guy. “Driver.”

“Castiel Milton,” he replied, shaking the outstretched hand after a hesitation. “Also driver.”

His brother snorted, but shook Dean’s hand anyway. “Like we didn’t already know _your_ name,” he said disdainfully, but then added, “Gabriel. I’m this guy’s nav.” He nudged Castiel, who muttered something and shoved back. Definitely brothers.

They went back to eating, but after a minute, Dean couldn’t help but ask. “Do people… like, _know_ me, here?” He tried to sound indifferent, but instead sounded a little desperate. Gabriel’s expression hardened.

“Yeah, don’t worry, you’re sure to get all the fawning John Winchester’s son deserves,” he answered, voice harsh.

“Gabriel,” Castiel admonished softly. Gabriel subsided. Dean poked his food around on his plate for a moment, and then continued speaking, not meeting their eyes.

“It’s just, I can deal with everyone being all… whatever, about me,” he explained, waving a hand, “but I was kinda hoping Sammy – my little brother, I mean – wouldn’t have to put up with it, y’know? Kid’s only thirteen,” he ended lamely.

Gabriel was looking softer, now. “I like you, Winchester,” he said eventually, as if he hadn’t been glaring Dean down only moments before. “The press won’t be hounding on him, if that’s what you mean – you’re older, and the driver, so they’re gonna care a lot more about you than some snotty little navigator. Hey,” he said to Dean’s sudden fierce look. “No offense or anything, I just remember when Cassie here was thirteen.” He nudged Castiel again. This time Castiel nearly shoved him off the bench, but Gabriel just laughed. “Anyway,” he continued, sobering again, “The other students here are a whole ‘nother story. I don’t mean to bust your bubble, kid, but having a dad like yours won’t gain you any friends now that you’ve snubbed the Rich and the Famous table over there,” he said, waving a fork towards the table Azazel was sitting at. “They’re gonna be out for your blood, trying to knock you down a peg, and they’re gonna be at the both of you to do it. So keep an eye out for him.”

“You don’t have to tell me that,” Dean snapped. Gabriel shrugged.

“And it doesn’t help that he’s the youngest here,” he added. “Thirteen, yeah? Youngest at the school in years. I’m guessing he’s a complete brain, then.”

“He’s a goddamn genius,” Dean said, pride creeping into his voice. Sam always said he sounded like someone’s mom when he started going on like this, and they both quietly ignored the obvious reply. “Gonna get into the best universities in the country when he’s old enough.”

Old enough to quit racing. Old enough to leave Dean behind in the dust.

“In any case, the other navs and some of the Mechs won’t like that,” Gabriel replied. “I’ll keep an eye on him around the others, if you want,” he suggested. Dean frowned.

“Dude, no offense, but I met you like… five minutes ago. I ain’t trusting you with my baby brother.”

“None taken. I’ll keep an eye on him anyway.”

“I apologise,” Castiel broke in suddenly. Dean jumped. He’d almost forgotten he was even there, distracted as the topic of Sam made him. “John Winchester is not a familiar name. I gather he is your father, but is he a racer of some sort?”

Dean stared. “We’re not a racing family,” Gabriel casually, smirking faintly. “He’s not really up to speed with the whole history of it yet.”

Castiel looked genuinely apologetic, as if his lack of knowledge of John Winchester was anything but a blessing to Dean, who’d lived in his father’s shadow his entire life.

“Don’t worry about it, Cas,” he said. Castiel tilted his head at the nickname but didn’t protest. “He just won a couple of races. Nothing big.”

Gabriel boggled at his dismissal of the legendary John Winchester and opened his mouth, but was thankfully interrupted by a familiar voice.

“Dean! Almost didn’t see you over here,” Charlie said, setting her tray next to Dean’s and sitting down. “Charlie Bradbury,” she added, shaking first Gabriel then Castiel’s hands enthusiastically. Gabriel looked as amused as Cas was confused.

“Are you Dean’s sister?” he asked politely. Dean’s face twisted.

“No?” he said. “We just met, like, this morning at the airport. Or however long ago that was. Where’d you get sister from, dude?” he asked incredulously. Cas lowered his eyes.

“You seemed close,” he muttered. “And as you and your brother do not look similar, I assumed the three of you were siblings via adoption, or otherwise not through blood. I apologise.”

“Dude, don’t apologise, Dean’s an awesome brother,” Charlie argued. “Sam couldn’t shut up about him on the plane.” Dean flushed, turning what was likely a very ugly red.

“I should not have assumed,” Cas repeated stubbornly. Gabriel rolled his eyes.

“He gets like this sometimes,” he groaned. Dean went to grab his hand over the table, actually stretching a hand out before remembering that people who met ten minutes beforehand didn’t actually do that, and snatched it back. Damn Sam and his touchy-feely ways, he’d made Dean forget that not everyone needed physical contact every five minutes. Gabriel gave him the stink eye.

“Seriously Cas, it’s fine,” he said instead. “We’re bros, aren’t we Charlie?” Charlie nodded happily, mouth full of steak. “So you were kind right.”

“That is good to know,” Cas murmured, and smiled. It was the first time he’d done so during dinner. They finished the meal in comfortable silence, Dean marvelling in the warm feeling Cas’ smile had given him.

 

* * *

 

After bidding the others goodnight, Dean finally got back to his and Sam’s rooms and hour and a half after he’d left. ”I bought grub!” he called out, nudging the door shut behind him and heading for the bedroom. “Shoulda let you starve, it’d serve you right for waking me up two freaking minutes before- ,” he broke off.

Sam was lying on his front on the bed, cheek on the book he’d been reading when Dean had left, making small whuffling noises every time he breathed out. Dean leaned against the door frame and took in the sight for a moment, one he’d seen a hundred times before; Sam passed out on his laptop, Sam collapsed on the couch with homework, Sam snoring with a book over his face. Smiling, he moved over to the bed and gently pulled the book free of Sam’s face. Sam made a small noise before opening one eye blearily.

“What time ‘zit?” he asked, very obviously still mostly asleep.

“Time for to go to bed, that’s what,” Dean replied quietly. He rolled Sam over quickly and expertly lifted him up, slipping his hands under Sam’s shoulders and knees in practiced motions.

“’m not a baby,” Sam protested sleepily, even as he leant his head against Dean’s chest.

“Course you are.” He carefully used one hand to pull back the covers. “Though you are getting a little big for this bit,” he grunted, hitching Sam up before placing him back on the bed and drawing the covers over him. He was asleep before Dean had even put him down.

Dean went and showered, enjoying the high pressure jets and scalding hot water before drying off and changing into boxers and a t-shirt. He stepped out of the bathroom still drying his hair and flipped the lights off. Screw acclimatising, or whatever Sam said; he was tired, and he was going to go to bed at half past eight if he wanted to. He was a goddamn International Race School student. He grinned to himself and threw the towel back into the bathroom, then got under the covers and closed his eyes.

He was still tossing and turning half an hour later, unable to relax in the unfamiliar room, when Sam rolled out of his own bed and padded his way across to Dean’s. Once Sam had crawled under the covers and attached his octopus limbs around him, Dean was asleep in two minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: the first race.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how long this fic is going to end up, but as the fic will follow the events that take place in the book, there'll probably be approximately eight or so chapters. This will also likely be the shortest chapter. Next up: meeting the rest of the cast!


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